


motherwort and vine

by butthulu, TheMockingCrows



Series: crash landing on an island isn't as glamorous as survivor makes it out to be [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amputation, Body Horror, M/M, Multi, mythical creatures, plant prosthetics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butthulu/pseuds/butthulu, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMockingCrows/pseuds/TheMockingCrows
Summary: When Dirk’s plane goes under, his last thought is,Fuck, I’m not gonna get Dave’s present done in time for his birthday.Turns out, that’s the least of his problems; when he wakes up, he has, to his surprise, not experienced a downgrade in breathing status since the last time he was conscious. He has, however, experienced several significant downgrades in the body department.That is to say, he’s missing an arm and 3/4ths of his leg, and he’s got a fractured skull and a broken spine.Thankfully, the jungle boy who claims to have saved his life is kinda cute. But the more that Dirk learns about him and the island he washed up on, the more he wonders if maybe his own life hasn’t pulled a Lost- and the more he wonders if he’ll ever get to see his family again. After all, this island has gone undiscovered despite the advances of modern technology; what’s to say anyone will find him now?And what's with that thing that keeps stalking him through the underbrush?





	1. The Struggle

Something is very wrong.   
  
That's the first thing that hits you, before the pain, before the sunlight, before the nausea and general misery of your existence. Something is very, very wrong. And  _ then _ all of that other stuff comes at you, like a semi speeding on a highway colliding with a brick wall, and you can't even roll onto your side to make sure you don't choke on your own puke. The only thing you can do is turn your head, and even that  _ hurts. _ Hurts like the physical embodiment of pain decided to make things personal and take a cricket bat to your fucking skull. You're pretty sure you have some sort of head wound, at the very least. Something wet is dripping down onto the ground beneath you, and it's way too viscous to be water.    
  
Speaking of the ground beneath you... it feels like... sand? Maybe? You twitch your fingers and curl them into it, and yup, that's sand. Wet sand, actually. Out of your good eye(you can only see out of one, which probably should make you feel a lot more scared than you do) you can see a beach spreading into the distance, and then curving off along a bend in the coast. How the fuck did you get onto a beach? Did you and Dave get really, really drunk together in Hawaii and he just  _ left _ you here? You don't  _ think _ your brother would do that, but it's hard to tell, sometimes. Thinking hurts, though, like the rest of your existence hurts. It's like trying to squint through a thick layer of fog, but in your head. This is not helped by the fact that your mouth now tastes like death and your tongue feels thick, dry, and heavy in it. It feels like your tongue is filling your head. It feels like your tongue is pressing up on your brain. Moving it makes your head spin, so you don't. Instead, you try to take stock of yourself.

 

Everything hurts. That's been well established. But there's parts of you that hurt more than others. You're pretty fucking sure you have come into the possession of several broken bones, while exchanging them for the whole, unsullied ones you already desperately miss. Your left leg is  _ probably _ broken, although you don't dare move your head or offending limb to find out, and you can't feel it all that well. Your right arm is broken, for sure, and you know this because when you roll your eyes downwards(it's excruciating) you see bone sticking out of your forearm. Honestly, you're pretty sure it's a miracle you aren't in  _ more _ pain. Maybe you're in shock. God, you hope you're not in shock. You really don't want to die. Isn't that funny? The year you finally decide you  _ don't _ want to die, you... die. You're probably going to die.    
  
You're probably going to die.   
  
The thought makes you push yourself up with your good hand, and  _ that _ makes you scream. Sort of. It comes out more like a strangled grunt. Your head spins again, and you whimper as you sway in place. The stuff(blood) that was dripping down onto the ground before runs down your neck. It doesn't show any signs of stopping. You are beginning to feel an appropriate amount of alarm at the idea. You look down.    
  
Yeah, that's a broken leg. Shit. You can't even stand up to try and get help. You're stuck, for a moment that extends way longer than it should, staring at the way your leg is bent at an unnatural angle, at the knee. At the  _ knee. _ Somehow you have the wherewithal to be  _ mad _ about that, because knee injuries are a  _ bitch _ to fix. The anger gets you to move again, and you slowly twist in place. Maybe you can crawl to safety. Being on the beach can't be sanitary. You'll find someone who can help you, someone who will fix you at least to semi-functional condition. Someone will save you. Someone has to save you.

 

Something goes very wrong.

 

When you twist, the ache in your spine(one that you hadn't gotten around to cataloguing, honestly, with the more serious concerns of your arm and leg)  _ pinches, _ and then the pain that you felt from your knee, even faint as it was, cuts off entirely. Frozen in place, you look back over your shoulder(which hurts) and look at your legs.    
  
You try to move your toes.   
  
You can't.   
  
When you're done retching into the already-impressive pool of vomit next to you, you try to crawl towards the treeline that you can now see at the edge of the beach. You're maybe five hundred feet away. No distance has ever felt longer. You still have to do it. You  _ have _ to.

 

You don't make it to the treeline.    
  
Three quarters of the way there, you run out of energy. You've been crying for about half of that distance, feeling pathetic and awful and like you're going to die, which you probably are, and the sun beats down on you and your limbs feel  _ heavy _ and your head swims and the facedown impact with the sand  _ hurts _ . It hurts so much. Jarring your head was the worst idea you've ever had, and that's impressive, because you've had a few. Sand tries to get in your nose when you breathe, so you open your mouth and try to breathe through that. With one hand you manage to push yourself onto your side, and you weep. You're going to die, and you're going to die crying.

  
Air brushes the top of your head. You only notice because it's cold, and the rest of you is hot from the sun and probably a fever? Or the shock. You can't bring yourself to look up at whatever it is. Hopefully it's just a breeze and not some wild animal come to eat you. The air brushes your head again, and you can hear it this time, too. It sounds suspiciously like snuffling. You stay as still as possible- not that it'll help, probably, with all the bleeding you're doing- and whatever it is leaves after a few minutes. It sounds... from the way it moves, it sounds like a rabbit.   
  
The incident is forgotten within a couple minutes. It's kind of hard to hold on to short-term memories when you're in this much pain. You cry again, some more, until you physically can't, and then, your vision swimming and blacking out, you call for help.   
  
Nobody comes.


	2. Chapter 2

You wake up.   
  
That, in itself, is a surprise, although for a long moment you're unsure why. Waking up is normal. It's a good thing, usually, and-   
  
Oh. Ow. Okay, yeah, you remember. Dying on a beach, yup, that would do it. You're still in pain, which  _ probably _ rules out being dead, unless the afterlife is real and you're in Hell, which is.... well, about what you expected, if not what you hoped. Given the fact that you're in  _ less _ pain than you were before, though, your bet is on being alive. On the one hand, hooray! You're alive. On the other hand, as mentioned, you  _ are _ in what is still a considerable amount of pain. If your pain could be made into a physical object, there would be... a lot of it, in both volume and mass. It would be nothing to sneeze at, is what you're saying.

 

It's probably a good idea to get your bearings. Since you don't feel sand underneath you, and the sun is no longer present(although you're pretty sure you have a nasty sunburn), it's safe to say you've been moved. Since you're not in a hospital bed and you only  _ wish _ you had painkillers, you're also sure that you're not anywhere you can get those two things immediately. This makes dread fill you, weighing down on your chest like it's tangible, because... You're one hundred percent sure you have a broken spine. There's really no two ways about it; you are helpless as a goddamn kitten right now, and you can only hope that whoever has brought it upon themselves to nurse you back to what could be seen as some sort of health(if you squint) is not a complete, raging asshole. You're at their mercy.    
  
....Right. You had a purpose in mind that you were setting out to do, and you're going to do it, instead of laying here contemplating the ways you're absolutely fucked.   
  
It's dark. Almost completely, in fact. That's probably at least partially due to your eyes being closed, so you open them.   
  
Nope, still dark.   
  
There  _ is _ a faint bit of sunlight, though. It illuminates the ceiling of some sort of covering above you, which is tinted a nice, middling pink. You appreciate this detail. Pink is one of your favorite colors, how did the universe know? How nice of it. The pink whatever-it-is seems to extend out and around you from a point that you're ballparking at around your navel, in a fat teardrop-bulb shape. There's folds to it, like the petals of a giant flower. When you reach up and touch the ceiling with your good hand, the texture is soft, like a flower, too.

 

So.... you're inside a flower, or a very convincing imitation of one. That's pretty weird. You push your hand up through the petals and, after a fair distance, your fingers touch air. When you try to peel back the petals, you find that you can't. Instead of panicking like your hindbrain immediately wants to do, you reassure yourself that you are not trapped, and that the person who put you in here(saved you) can't be far. The reasonable thing would be to call out to them, and figure out if they're even here.

 

For a while, you do not do the reasonable thing. You lay there like an idiot while your brain spirals into  _ another _ type of panic, centered around who and what the fuck your "savior" is. Someone who can grow a flower bulb big enough to fit a person, obviously, but what other things? What kind of person is able to do that? What kind of  _ plant _ is able to do that? Visions of megaflora and fauna dance behind your eyes, but you won't know for certain unless you get out of this goddamn thing. So you call out, finally.   
  
"Hello?"   
  
There's no response. You figure that this may be because the bulb surrounding you is pretty thick, so you try again, a little louder. This time, there's a thunk and a slither, like someone just threw a snake, which utterly bewilders you. You're probably safe inside this thing, but who the hell would throw a snake? Other than for self-defense, if it was attacking them, or something. You listen more closely. The slithering gives way to footsteps, which approach your flowery prison-bed. They pause right outside, and you hastily withdraw your arm. There's a pause, and then the light from outside begins to grow brighter, bit by bit, while your bulb rustles softly. The top petals are the last to go, and instead of being peeled away, they just unfold like it's the most natural thing in the world, and you're left staring up into the face of another human.

 

"Well, hello there! Bit of a surprise to see you're awake," the other human says. You're reasonably sure, given the face and the voice, that this is a guy, but you try not to assume. You'll find out later, when your more pressing questions are answered, such as "who the fuck are you" and "what the hell happened to me". You open your mouth to give voice to these questions, and find that your mouth is suddenly very dry, because there are.   
  
There are, uh.   
  
"You have plants. Growing out of your- your-" Holy fuck. You've never really been much of a fainting person, but there are plants growing out of this dude's shoulders. In the shape of arms. That's something faint-worthy in your book, and if anyone has an argument with that, they can take it up with the complaints department, which is conveniently located up their own ass. You're starting to get dizzy. This is probably because you're hyperventilating.

 

The person looks down at each shoulder, like they're surprised you brought it up. "Oh! Oh, yes, I do. Indeed. That's not really important right now, my good chap-"    
  
"You have  _ plants _ growing out of your  _ arms, _ " you repeat, a note of hysteria creeping into your voice. A big note. More than a little, if you're being perfectly honest. "That is  _ pretty fucking important, _ if you ask me."   
  
Irritation(or what seems to be irritation) furrows their eyebrows, and makes them frown. They say, "Well, it's good nobody did, then, isn't it?" And that shuts you up pretty good, just because you're fucking  _ appalled _ at how  _ rude _ that is. How dare he- "What I was trying to say is," they say, fixing you with a Look, "how you're feeling is much more important than the plants which, honestly, aren't doing anything to you or me, and are perfectly fine right where they are. Just- no, don't get that look on your face, don't argue with me, I know more about my plants than you do, so you can shut your gob about it."

 

Your offended tirade that you were totally gearing up for sputters out and dies on your tongue. You frown severely at them, but you can't find a good argument to counter that, and they seem to know that. They roll their eyes at you and huff. "Now, let me have a gander at that arm, yeah?" Without even letting you reply, they take your arm- the injured one- in their hand, and lifts it, and what you see is- it's-   
  
Your arm isn't. There anymore. In the fleshy sense, at least, because there is  _ an _ arm there, it's just not yours. You can feel it, and it moves when you try to move it, but it's not your arm. It can't be your arm, because like this stranger, you. You no longer- it's made out of plants. Out of vines wrapped around some sort of central support, and covered in bark, like armor plates that can shift and move and separate. The stranger is inspecting the point of- of- the point where plant meets flesh, and it's red and inflamed and-   
  
"Oh my god," you whimper, beginning to hyperventilate again. "Oh my fucking god, what the fuck did you  _ do _ to me?!"

  
"Now, hold on there a second-" They try to say, but you're having  _ none _ of it this time. You're pretty sure you're only not screaming because you're struggling to remember how. All that's coming out is this pathetic whistling whine. You start to try and push yourself away from them, but vines curl up from the floor of the bulb and  _ hold you down, _ and yeah, that's when you start screaming.   
  
And then you stop doing that, because you're no longer conscious.


	3. Chapter 3

Time passes. You're never quite sure how much, because you spend the next stretch of time mostly asleep. When you wake up, you never quite surface all the way, full consciousness and lucidity just out of reach. Often you're awake just long enough to get some food into your stomach, and then you're under again. The pain lessens a little each time, and somewhere along the line, you realize that you're healing. Of course, you don't always remember that. Your wakefulness mileage varies.   
  
It's a shock when you finally wake up for real, and you barely feel any pain at all. The pod you've become somewhat familiar with is closed around you again. This time, you reach out and touch the walls, attempting to identify the type of flower from within. The petals are still soft, like last time, and some of the innermost ones, you notice when you turn your head, are folded under you to provide a pad to lay on. The flower is definitely pink, you weren't imagining that last time, and the edges of the petals are ruffled. Maybe.... a peony? Yeah, that sounds about right. (Not that you know anything about flowers.) Now that you're taking the time to really take things in, you note that it smells pretty good, too.

 

But, uh, fuck that. Fuck this weird flower pod you've been stuck in for the past god-knows-how-long. You're healed(or mostly healed) and you're ready to thank and then kick the ass of whoever that asshole was that greeted you when you woke up the first time. Sure, they've been healing you- you assume- and that does make you feel.... grateful..... but they also gave you-   
  
Oh god. Fuck. God. You were trying not to think about it.   
  
Your breathing very quickly goes from "steady and stable" to "hyperventilating  _ again _ " within the span of about three seconds. The back of your head is screaming, along with the rest of your head, actually, because you have fucking  _ plants _ for limbs. How the FUCK is that even possible. It's like something out of a scifi horror novel, except you're in it. The main character is you, and you've been given something that, while you probably couldn't live without, given the state you were in before that stranger found you, you would  _ really prefer not to have. _ To say that this is difficult to deal with is the grossest understatement anyone has ever made about anything, in the history of mankind. The only reason you're not screaming is because you have this weird reflex to bottle things up when they upset you, and since it's worked out pretty well so far, you're gonna just keep  _ doing that. _ Because you have  _ plants for limbs. _ They are  _ growing out of you. _   
  
It's kinda hard to tell how long you lay there in the now-soothing darkness of your plant pod, panicking yourself into a stupor. Time gets kinda funny when shit like this happens, and by now you've just sort of learned to dispense with caring about it. You'll be done when you get done, and the rest of the world can fucking deal with it. You're not in a hurry. Last time you checked, you were washed up on the shore of some unknown land, with nobody around but that stranger. So the rest of the world can hold its horses while you have a justified, well-deserved, silent breakdown.

 

When you're finally done with  _ that _ , though, you push a hand up into the middle of the pod above you, where all the petals converge. Unlike last time, when you were in so much pain your physical performance probably took a huge hit, the petals are fairly easy to part, and you push your other hand(plant hand, fuck) into the opening, as well. The texture of vines against your flesh-and-bone arm makes you shudder, and you close your eyes so you don't have to look at it. With both your arms, you part the petals and emerge like some sort of weird metaphor for rebirth.    
  
The light in the room you're in is very green. The walls are also green, in the way that leaves are green when the sun shines through them, and upon more than a cursory inspection, you determine that the walls are made of leaves, which explains that. It's really impressive, actually. The room- which is round, and oblong, but only slightly so- is built with an overlapping pattern of giant leaves, starting more heavily wrapped at the bottom and getting lighter at the top. About halfway up, behind you when you look, a part in the leaves forms an almond-shaped window, casting what you  _ believe _ to be noonday light- judging by the angle- onto the floor behind you. To your left is a shelf made of wood that seems to be growing out of the floor. To your right, another flower, like your own, but the petals are pale green, and differently shaped, although you really can't tell what kind of flower that one is. It's got a  _ lot _ of petals, though.   
  
The stranger seems to be absent. You take a moment to be thankful for this, despite your end goal being "find them". This is because you're about to stand up, and with your new leg, you're pretty sure that's going to involve some embarrassing falling down like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time, all shaky-legged and helpless. You hate being helpless, and even more so in front of other people.

 

Exactly as unsteady as you thought you'd be, you struggle to your feet. The plant leg- it's from just above the knee downwards, you can feel it, it feels  _ different _ from the rest of you and the point of connection feels tight and possibly inflamed- spreads out automatically at the foot to steady you, out of some unconscious or instinctual impulse, and you have to take a few minutes to pull it together into a normal human foot shape. Your foot shape.    
  
You don't check to see if it's accurate.   
  
The window is only a few feet away, but putting weight on your bad leg hurts, so it feels more like a mile. Every step is an exercise in caution, although when you leave the radius of your flower-bed, the wood under your flesh-and-blood foot feels nice. It's soft, but textured, at the same time. You curl your toes against it, humming softly, before resuming your trek towards the window.    
  
When you get there, you test the sturdiness of the leaves. They're a lot stiffer than they look, and more solid, but they still bend when you apply a moderate amount of force. You make a mental note not to fall against the walls. It would suck to break the only shelter you currently have. Outside the window, looking straight out, you see.... the tops of trees? That... that can't be right. But your eyes don't lie; you are currently at  _ least _ fifty feet above the tops of some of the trees that you can see, and others are right up next to yours, in both height and distance. In some places, you see that the branches of some of them come close to touching, or  _ do _ touch, forming a network. From your limited viewpoint, the trunk of a tree and several thick branches spread out from the outside of the pod-room you're in, and you realize that not only are you among trees, you're nestled in the bowl where the branches of a much bigger tree meet.    
  
You look out over the edge, and down.

 

The drop that stretches out below you dizzies you. You clutch the edge of the window, eyes wide, as you take in just how far you are from the ground. You've never been particularly great with heights, but you're pretty sure that the height of the tree you're in would scare the shit out of  _ anyone, _ because you're- you're just way too fucking high up. A hundred fifty, maybe two hundred feet above the ground, and you're leaning over the edge like a fucking  _ fool. _ The handhold you've got isn't even that steady. Suddenly, you feel much less inclined towards escaping. You step away from the window and sit down in your little petal pod, pulling it close around you. It feels comforting, being enclosed in its grasp, and the solid wood underneath you is comforting, too, in the way it emulates solid ground, which you are in reality very, very far away from.   
  
God, how the hell did you get yourself into this mess? You've been so busy being unconscious or in crippling amounts of pain that you really haven't been able to think about how you  _ got _ here. How you ended up on a beach on some sort of- wait, are you near the coast, still? Are you... are you even on the mainland? The possibility that you're not is terrifying. You stumble back over to the window and look out, this time, instead of down, and you see.....   
  
Ocean. Further than the horizon, with the shore only maybe half a mile off, is the ocean, sparkling in the sunlight. The coastline that you can see curves off and around the tree you're in, instead of stretching into the distance. You  _ have _ to know if it goes all the way around, so against your better judgement, you climb out the window and into the tree, walking around the pod-home to get a better look. To your increasing dismay, you find that yes, it does go all the way around.    
  
You're on an island, and you have no way to get home.


	4. Chapter 4

The stranger- you have yet to learn their name- finds you in your pod, curled up in the petals with just the top of your head sticking out. It's been a couple hours, maybe, since you found out that you're stranded in the middle of the ocean and you're probably going to die here, and you like to think that you're handling it about as well as you possibly could. The stranger climbs in through the window, which you've figured out is the only way in and out of this damn thing, and you look up, wondering how the _hell_ they managed to climb a hundred fifty feet in the air. They _beam_ at you, and chirp, "Good morning! I was wondering when you'd wake up for good, mate, you've been out for almost a month!"   
  
What?! "A _month?!!_ " Oh, no. Ohhh, fuck no. Dave has to be worried sick, he probably thinks you're dead! But you're not going to panic again. You've had enough of that for one day. So instead of panicking, you take a deep breath and close your eyes. When you reopen them, you ask, "What's your name? I didn't catch it, before. And, uh, what... do you go by? Pronouns-wise, I mean."   
  
They look a little confused that you asked the second part, like they weren't aware that that was something that people asked. They reply, "Terribly sorry that I skipped the introductions! You were in quite a state, last time you were lucid enough to be talking, and I didn't get the chance." They extend a hand to you. A plant hand. You take it with your flesh hand, and shake it, feeling a little numb. "The name's Jake! Jake English. I'm a gent, if that's what you were asking before. Does it look like I'm not?" He looks down at himself with a little frown.   
  
You explain, "I try not to assume." He opens his mouth to inquire further, but you cut him off. "I'm Dirk, by the way. Last name Strider. I'm a guy also. Now that our introductions are over..." You gesture around you. "Where the hell are we?"

 

Jake's expression brightens. "We're on my island! Just the two of us. It's not a very big island, granted, but it's got more than enough for me, and I'll bet it has more than enough for you, too! Not difficult to support two people in such a verdant place. I'm sure you've got more questions, so if you think you're up to taking a walkabout, I can show you around!"   
  
You... weren't expecting him to be so enthusiastic about it. In fact, you were expecting to have to be pretty combative about the whole seeing the island thing, because you've sort of been operating under the assumption that Jake wouldn't be friendly. First impressions can be a bitch. You've certainly made enough of them to know.   
  
"I'd like that," you say, and his smile returns. It's a million-watt thing, too bright to look at directly, so you look out the window instead. "How are we going to get to the ground? Not sure if you noticed, but we're pretty damn high up. I'm wondering how the fuck you managed to get up here in the first place, let alone set up...." You wave a hand at the pod-house around you. "This."

 

Instead of answering directly, he takes your hand and pats down the flower petals of your pod, sitting down in front of you. His back is to the window, and the sunlight frames his head in a way that you would consider messianic if you were a religious person. (You're not.) "You and me," he says, "we're special, now. Not because we were special before, but because we've got our plants. The plants here, on this island, they're... symbiotic. And intelligent. Magic. If you know how to talk to them, they'll do just about anything for you." He taps your arm, the plant one with its vines, and bark coating, and then lets go, so he can show you his own. "Watch!" The vines that make up his arms start to untangle themselves, unwrapping from around wooden bones and waving in the air. There's tiny vines, the little pea-sized ones that make up the bulk of the "muscles" in his arm, and then there's the big ones, that emulate tendons, and thin ones for skin. Watching his arms separate into their own separate filaments and components is like watching a fucking transformer unfold, but ten times worse, because it's organic. It's also sickeningly fascinating. _You_ can do that, too? With practice? It worries you, more than a bit. A lot.

 

 

But you aren’t going to faint. You aren’t going to scream. Not this time. This time, you’re going to handle this freaky magic plant shit like an adult. So you take several deep, calming breaths, and say, “Please put them back.”  
  
Miraculously, he does! And you already feel a little better for him having done it, which you can firmly count as a win. You close your eyes and flex your bark-covered hand, reassuring yourself that yes, it is still hand shaped. When you look at him again, he looks quite concerned, but you give him a tight-lipped smile and say, “I’m fine. Not gonna freak out again. You didn’t really answer my question from before, though. How do you get up and down this tree? It’s a bit steep of a drop.”   
  
He snorts. “You can say that again. Well, normally _I_ climb or ask the trees to ferry me up- it’s not that hard once you get the hang of it, with these handy-dandy limbs- but I’ve also got a pulley system set up! Very useful for putting things in storage. I think you’ll be impressed, honestly!” He gets to his feet and offers you a hand, which you reluctantly use to pull yourself up. He helps steady you once you’re up, which is nice. The both of you go to the window, then out, and he says, “Platform, if you would, darling?”   
  
You’re about to object to him calling you that, when the tree branch next to you _moves._ The noise you make could kindly be described as high-pitched, which means you basically shriek like a little girl. Trees aren’t supposed to _move!_ Sure, you’ve seen Lord of the Rings, but this isn’t a fucking Ent! Jake laughs at you, and you shoot him a scowl that’s more like a pout, while he guides you both onto the platform that the tree made of its branches and leaves, weaving them into existence before your eyes. It’s shockingly sturdy, and you’re…. Well, you’re thankful for that.

 

“Down to storage, if you would,” he says to the tree. The platform begins to move, outwards and down, and if you cling to Jake tighter than is strictly necessary, he doesn’t seem to mind.

 

The two of you are lowered to a box-like structure built out of the side of the tree- no, scratch that, growing _out_ of the tree. Like he asked the tree to make it and it grew that way just for him, which, considering what you’re standing on and witnessing _right this second,_ seems less implausible than it would otherwise sound.

 

Before you can ask what it is, Jake steps onto the top of the boxy growth, tugging you along with him. He says, "This is my storage! It's got all of my non perishables. Food and neat knick-knacks galore!" He takes you over to a hatch in the top, and taps it with his foot. "This's the trapdoor. But we don't need to go in right now. We're on our way down!"   
  
At the edge of the storage room is a platform made of dead wood(a distinction you wish you didn't have to make), attached to a pulley system that involves several pulley wheels that are, surprisingly enough, made of metal. He helps you onto it, and begins lowering you down, using a rope almost as thick as his arm. The whole ride down, you're silent, choosing to look up at the broad spread of the leaves against the sun, and the retreating edge of the pod-house. It's better than looking down and shitting yourself in terror.

 

When you've successfully reached the ground without incident, Jake ties the rope to a nearby tree trunk and brushes his hands off, although you don't really see why he needs to, since he doesn't really have skin. Must be a leftover habit, from before he lost his limbs. Something instinctual. He helps you off the lift, even though you don't _need_ his help. Upon contact with the forest floor, your foot spreads out, dissolving from its neat, easy-to-handle foot shape into a mass of wriggling.... roots. For some reason, you feel physically better, even though mentally you're kinda freaking the fuck out. But no! No. No, you are not going to let this shake you. You're going to handle this calmly and rationally.   
  
"Jake," you growl through gritted teeth, " _what_ is it _doing._ "   
  
Jake looks at you, and then at your foot, like it's obvious. "Well," he says, slowly, "it's normal for plants to get nutrients from the soil, innit? And you've been a long way from the ground for almost a month. They're plum starved! I'm sure they'll get their fill soon, and then we can be off with our island adventure." He sounds so thrilled about it, it's hard to be mad at him for being blase about the whole plant limb shit.   
  
"How soon?" God, you hope it's quick. It's really wigging you out, feeling all the little tendrils poking into the soil. You're really not used to this at all. You don't _want_ to get used to it, but you're going to have to.   
  
Jake considers the question with a soft hum. "Maybe about an hour? They really are famished. Why don't you have a sit-down while it does its think?"   
  
You let your head loll back and _groan._


	5. Chapter 5

While you're waiting for the roots in your leg to finish their drink, you sit at the base of Jake's home tree, your back against the bark. Its solidity is comforting, as is that of the ground beneath you, but you still curl up around one knee, the other stretched out to dig into the earth. Jake is staring at you. You can see him out of your peripheral, his head turned toward you, his expression unreadable. You sigh.   
  
"You're not taking this very well, are you?" Jake's voice is quiet. You snort at his question and roll your eyes.   
  
"No shit, Jake." He recoils, biting his lip, and you turn your head away from him so you'll stop feeling guilty for snapping at him. It doesn't work. "...Sorry. No. No, I'm not taking it well. Didn't... did  _ you, _ when you.... you know? First had... those?"

 

He hums, and you can practically hear him thinking. "Well," he says, "to be honest? Not really. I didn't... have anyone. After. I was all alone. I was... I suppose I was hoping that you'd deal with it better because you've got someone to explain how it works. I haven't been doing a very good job, I guess." He sounds so dejected that you lift your head and look at him, and, yep, there's tears in his eyes. You frown.    
  
"You've been doing as well as can be expected," you say, the words coming slowly. You've never been any good at comforting people, but you want to try. He's the only other person on this island, and it's not like you  _ can't _ get along with him. He seems nice. "I mean, how long have you been alone? Without humans, I mean. You can talk to the plants, so I guess you're not truly alone. But you certainly haven't had any practice, so not being good at this is understandable. And don't get me wrong, you.... you saved my life." You look down at your flesh hand, which is the only free one, since your plant hand seems to have taken the chance to bury itself in the soil while you weren't looking. Great. "If you hadn't.... if you hadn't found me, I'd be dead. I don't want to die. But this is a lot to get used to."

 

Jake sighs, "I know. Trust me, I do! And I'm sorry that I've not done anything to ease the transition, as it were. I've been doing my best." He sounds so eager to convince you. So earnest.   
  
"I know," you assure him. "I can tell. So, uh, what else on this island is magic, besides the plants? Anything being magic is new to me. The fact that magic exists is new to me, other than in terms of sleight of hand, and stuff. Which is not actual magic, it's just.... people being really fucking clever and good with their hands. It's not, bam, plants can suddenly be prosthetics, or respond to human speech. This stuff isn't normal for me. So catch me up to speed on what's what around here, so I can not be freaked out when I encounter something new."

 

He hums, thinking about it for a long moment. His hand goes to his chin, and he taps it as he mulls that over. “Well, there's not much besides the plants! There's some animals that I believe might not be ones you find anywhere else, but when I arrived here on the island, I was only.... let's see, maybe... eight? And despite my grandmother's knowledge of species and all that, and her books- species encyclopedias and all- which I've tried to keep in good shape, I just don't know for sure. I don't even really know what makes the plants tick! Why they're intelligent, and how they can meld with us. I suppose I should just be grateful that they do; they saved my life, after all."   
  
Your eyes move to the extensive plant prostheses that have dug their way into his body. He's plant pretty much from the middle of his stomach down, and it makes your own stomach churn to imagine what might have happened to make him like that. So of course you ask. "What.... happened?"

 

His eyes are fixed on the ground. He fiddles with his hands, a nervous gesture that has their vines uncurling and recurling around each other, melding his hands together and then pulling apart. It's actually kind of nauseating for you to look at, so you look at his face instead. "My grandma disappeared," he says, finally. "I don't know what happened to her. I was eight, maybe nine? We'd been on the island for a while. She was cataloguing all the plants and animals, and one day, she went into the jungle and she... didn't come back. I tried to look for her, of course. But I could barely find my way back to camp, and I didn't want to get lost somewhere she couldn't find me. I  _ know _ she didn't leave me. A few weeks after she'd disappeared, I think something went wrong with my internals. I'm still pretty hazy on the details, to be perfectly honest. All I can remember is being in a lot of pain, and then something  _ popped _ when I moved wrong, and then I was in a lot  _ more _ pain. And then the plants saved me. But they weren't very good at it, so my, um, my legs were sort of the collateral."

 

That sounds like appendicitis. You grimace in sympathy, and reach over to lay your hand on his shoulder. Jake looks up at you and blinks, seemingly surprised. "Oh! Sorry if that was a bit of a depressing tale, mate, it's not like I really intended to make you-"   
  
"Jake," you interrupt. He shuts his mouth with an audible click. "It's fine. You haven't had anyone to talk to for, what, a whole decade? How old are you, exactly?"   
  
"I haven't been keeping close track," he admits. "Maybe..... twenty? Ish? Maybe a little older?" You nod. He looks about that age. You strangle the unreasonable jealousy of his meager two years of age that he's got on you. It's dumb to be jealous of people for being older. You're not going to do it.

 

"Right," you reply, like you didn't just bludgeon an unreasonable part of your psyche into submission. "So you've been holding all this inside for more than ten years, with nobody to talk to about it. Besides the plants, but they don't really seem inclined towards conversation." He nods, making a face.    
  
"Don't get me wrong! I love this island, and I love the plants. But for all that I talked about them "talking", before, it's more.... I don't know. Subtle? It's less words and more meanings. Impressions. They're intelligent, but.... it's hard to interact with them on the same level. They don't really have brains, so they don't necessarily  _ think, _ but they do have minds of their own."

 

That's... interesting. You wonder what causes that. But your limbs seem to have eaten their fill sooner than expected, and retreat into their less nauseating hand and leg shapes. Words fail you to describe how grateful you are for this. You stand up, and Jake pulls himself out of the soil as well, shaking clumps of dirt off and out. "You said something earlier about a tour?"


	6. Chapter 6

Something doesn't feel right, as Jake leads you around the island. Of course you listen to him- you don't want to miss out on anything important, and his voice  _ is _ really nice, you've decided- but there's something nagging at you the whole time. Something off. You can't quite place what it is, until you realize that there's more than two sets of footsteps rustling through the brush around you. You tap Jake gently to get his attention mid sentence, and he falters and looks at you, wide-eyed. "Yes?"   
  
"What kind of animals are here on the island?" Your voice sounds tense even to him, it seems, because his eyebrows furrow, and he frowns thoughtfully.    
  
"Nothing that would hurt us," he says, with confidence you wish you shared. "Why?"    
  
"I think something is following us."    
  
Jake nods and forges ahead, a new sense of urgency in his step, but when you follow, it's just the two of you again, as far as you can tell. You emerge into direct sunlight, and you can  _ feel _ your plant limbs, and... something... in your head....   
  
Something is in your head.    
  
"Jake," you say,  _ very _ calmly and not freaking out at all, "is there a plant. In my skull."

 

He looks guilty, and that's really all the answer you need. You take a few deep breaths, and raise your chin, counting down from ten. You are calm. You are an island of tranquility in the middle of a sea of frothing panic. You. Are.  _ Fine. _ "Why is there a plant in my skull, Jake?"    
  
"It was fractured," he explains, expression guilty and earnest all at once. You purse your lips, and he continues like it's an actual prompt. Maybe one day you'll be able to get him to spill the beans without saying anything at all. "Your... your spine, too. It was broken, Dirk, and I  _ had _ to fix it. I couldn't just let it keep being broken."   
  
The ocean roars in your ears. That's right. You... you remember that. You remember waking up on the beach and trying to get up, and twisting and the awful, hot, pinching sensation followed by cold nothing. Your spine was broken. And.... now it's not. Instead, there's... plants. Holding it together. You put your hands together and raise them to your lips, trying to process this through the.... feelings. That you're feeling.

 

A few deep breaths later, you say, "Thank you, Jake... for... taking care of me, and healing my injuries. I appreciate being able to move and not have my brains fall out of my fucking head."   
  
He blinks at you, frowning, and says, "You... seem to be taking this rather well, compared to earlier."   
  
"I am not!" Your eyes are wide and a little crazed as you exclaim this. You are not taking this well at all. It is a struggle not to scream, and you are desperately trying to retain control of yourself so you don't curl up on the forest floor and let the screaming that's trying to claw its way out of your skull out into the open. It would be a bad idea. A really, really bad idea. So you take some more deep breaths, and you close your eyes, because you think that if you look at Jake for any longer you will probably do it anyways, just because he looks so  _ concerned _ and that makes the weak parts of you want to give in and be vulnerable, let him help you. Let him comfort you.   
  
But no. No, you will not. You are  _ not _ controlled by your emotions. You will  _ not _ have another breakdown.

 

You reopen your eyes to find that he's moved closer to you, and is reaching out to touch you. On reflex you jerk away, and he stops. Thank fucking god. "I am taking this really fucking poorly," you inform him, "and I don't want you touching me right now, because if you do, I will freak the fuck out. Okay?"    
  
He nods. You breathe a sigh of relief. Good. He understands. Maybe not entirely, but he doesn't need to.    
  
"Show me the rest of the island, okay? What's this we're looking at?" You gesture to the scene before you, which you've been neglecting to notice in favor of noticing that the plant parts of your body exposed to the direct sunlight have begun feeling... happier. Stronger, and more energetic. They were feeling alright before, but the sunlight they could get was dim and dappled, under the cover of the jungle canopy. The reason you're no longer under that canopy is immediately obvious.   
  
"Why, it's a lake!"

 

So it is. Before the two of you spreads a lake, glittering in the light. Its waters are shockingly clear; when you approach the shore, you see all the way to the bottom. It's impossible to tell how deep it is without diving in, but that kind of unsettles you, so you stay near the shore, dipping your feet in the water. Again your vine leg unfurls, making you grit your teeth. "It needs to hydrate, doesn't it."    
  
Jake looks over at you, and then down at your leg. He beams at your statement, nodding. "Yes! Kudos to you for figuring that out right away. I didn't until I was hideously dehydrated. Nearly died! They'll dry up without water- this is where I come to give that to them! One dunk a day is usually enough for mine."   
  
Once a day. Okay. You can handle that. You wade deeper into the water, and sit down, then lay back, so your whole body and head are submerged, except for your face. You hear something from Jake, but since the sunlight is in your eyes you have to close them, and you can't see his face. He leaves you alone after a minute, with your limbs  spread out over the water, soaking up sun and water alike. Once you let go of the inherent, gut-deep squick of having plants growing into your body- which your brain tells you should not ever be possible unless you're  _ dead _ \- it's actually kind of nice. Your face relaxes- not into a smile, but less of a frown. Something neutral.

 

Jake's shadow falls over you, and you open your eyes to squint up at his face. It's haloed by the sun, in a way that strikes you as divine. He smiles, and asks you a question that you can't hear through the water, so you sit up and ask, "What?"   
  
"I said, are you enjoying yourself?" Jake puts his hands on his hips, still smiling down at you. Your face gets hot, and you blame it on sunburn, even though your skin really shouldn't be burning already.    
  
"Yeah," you reply, intelligently. And the weird thing is?    
  
You kind of are.


	7. Chapter 7

You think you've got a lead on that thing that was following you, the other day.

It's been almost two weeks since you woke up for good in Jake's home. You know this because you've been keeping track on a large piece of bark that you cut into once a day, with a knife that Jake gave you and you value more than pretty much anything else you have on this island, besides his actual companionship. Jake has shown you around multiple times, and you've gotten strong enough to use the pulley platform to ease yourself down to the jungle floor, even if you can't manage to lift yourself up with it on your own. You've memorized the way to the lake, and how to find Jake's home tree when you get lost, and that's really all you need while you're settling in.

The idea of settling in still frightens you. The idea that this might be a permanent residence still frightens you.

But that's not the point! The point is, every time you've ventured out into the jungle on your own, you've been followed. Not by Jake, but by... something else. You're pretty damn sure it's the same thing, but every time you've tried to spring a surprise on it, there's been nothing there, like whatever's following you has dissolved into thin air. You know it was there- you've never had auditory hallucinations before, and you doubt you've started spontaneously- but you've never caught a single glimpse of it. It's beyond frustrating.

This time, though, you've set a trap. Jake taught you how, and during one of the rare times that you've been alone in the jungle- the thing doesn't follow you the whole time you're out, just some of the time- you set up a simple tree spring snare, and all you have to do is lead the thing into it. Tonight.

When Jake is asleep, you let yourself down to the ground and walk in a random direction, waiting for the sound of footsteps to try and hide itself in the sound of yours. You know better. You know it's there, and you're going to catch it, provided that it's not too clever to avoid your trap entirely. Once you're sure that it's following you, you gradually change directions, leading it towards the snare. It's set up in an inconspicuous spot, so you only find your way there by following little landmarks you set for yourself for general navigation. Instead of passing just by the snare, you step over and through it entirely without setting it off. You're rewarded by the sound of the tree snapping back into place behind you, and a very human-sounding yelp.

Wait, what?

Immediately you double back and go to look at what you caught. The first syllable of Jake's name dies on your lips as you see, no, this is definitely not Jake. It's... someone else. You would say that they're human, but the more you look at them, the less you're sure of that. Even in the dim moonlight that struggles down through the canopy, you can see that they've got pointed ears, and their proportions are just a little bit off. The biggest thing that clues you in, though, is that they've got a spattering of freckles on their face and ears and shoulders, and those freckles are glowing. Like, bright sky blue. They've got an outfit on that looks like it's made of leaves and vines, wrapping around them in a toga-like way. They slowly spin in the trap, and they look a little... dazed.

"Who the hell are you?" The words are out before you can think about them, and your stomach drops into the core of the earth as you realize they're probably a fairy and you were just inexcusably rude to them. They just sort of look at you for a moment, as if shocked that you're seeing them. 

"Um," they say. "Well, I'm obviously not going to give you my real name. That would be stupid! But you can call me John. I'm a guy." He sticks his hand out, and you very gingerly shake it. Something in the palm of his hand shocks you, like a prank buzzer, but when you yank your hand back, nothing is there. He presses his hand to his mouth and giggles, the motherfucker.

The expression on your face feels locked somewhere between disbelief at John's existence and contempt at his absolutely shitty magic "prank." You don't dare insult the prank out loud, because that would be rude. If any of the tales about fae you've heard are true, you do not want to be rude. 

John rolls his eyes at you, and says, "Relaaaaaaaax! I'm not that big on manners, you don't need to walk on eggshells around me! Besides, you like, already caught me in a trap, sooo that's pretty rude already." He has a point. You shuffle over to the trap, still kind of stunned that fae exist, and cut the rope. Instead of crashing to the ground like you expect him to, he's buoyed up by a gust of wind, and set down gently on his feet. You take a moment out of your busy emotional schedule to be burningly jealous. He doesn't seem to notice. 

"Soooo, what's your name?" He looks up at you, all innocent wide eyes, and you almost give him your name. Almost. But you catch yourself at the last moment.

"You may call me Dee," you reply, and the name feels weird on your tongue, but it's better than letting a fucking fairy have your name. You'd be absolutely fucked if you'd answered truthfully. 

John grins at you. "Alright, Dee! Nice to meet you. Why'd you set up that trap?"

"I think a question for a question is a good deal," you say cautiously, and he grooooans, like actually agreeing to a contract or whatever is such a huge burden. Your frown is back, old friend that it is, and you put your hands on your hips, staring him down. It only takes him a few moments to give up.

"Fine! A question for a question," he says, looking antsy to know. He's fidgeting all over the place, like he can't possibly stay still, and you feel a bit of satisfaction for making him squirm. "Now spill the deets, Dee! Don't keep me waiting!"

There's a tingle that washes over your skin that feels like a compulsion, whether he intended it or not. It can't find purchase on you; you gave him a pseudonym, after all. You raise your eyebrows at him and say, "Because you've been following me. Why have you been following me? Surely you have better things to do than stalk humans all the way out here on this lonely island."

John shrugs. "Would it surprise you if I said that I don't?" His expression sours into a pout. "Aw, nuts. That was a question. Ummm, well, I was following you around because you're interesting! I've been here a whole year and I've never seen you around here before. I know what Jake is all about, but he never seemed to notice me! You noticed me right away. That makes you interesting."

You take a few moments to think about that. Questions crowd your tongue, but you have to pick carefully, and use your words carefully, too. He's watching you like you're the most fascinating thing he's seen in ages, and it makes you kind of uncomfortable, but not necessarily in a bad way. It's weird. "It would kind of surprise me that you don't have anything better to do. I don't think I'm that interesting. Definitely not interesting enough to warrant the attention of a being such as yourself." Flattery is good, right? John looks amused by it, but that doesn't mean that it's good. "Why are you here on the island?"

John wrinkles his nose, and says, "Next question. I don't want to talk about it." When you open your mouth to clearly protest, he interrupts you before you can even start. "You said a question for a question! That doesn't mean we have to answer the questions. This is fae dealing one oh one, Dee, keep up!" You would feel embarrassed if he wasn't so terribly pleased with being able to school your ass. Instead you just feel irritated at his flippancy. "What are you doing on the island?"

You... have devoted a lot of thought to that question, yourself. It's hard to remember things around the time when you washed up on the beach here. Everything is fuzzy, like you're seeing it all from behind a wall of fog. The last thing you remember clearly is saying goodbye to your brother in Hawaii, at the airport. "I think I was in a plane crash," you reply. "I got hurt, so something must have gone pretty damn wrong, but I don't remember exactly what happened. Will you walk with me? Standing in one place is making me restless." You start walking towards the nearest beach, and to your unexpected delight, John does indeed follow you. You don't know why you're so happy. Maybe because Jake is good company, but you need variety? Who knows. It makes you feel kind of guilty, complaining about not having variety when he's been alone all this time.

Neither of you says anything until you reach the beach. You've been working on something for a while now, on each of the beaches that's big enough. Collecting driftwood, shells, seaweed, and stones is easy enough, and you've arranged them into an "S.O.S" sign that you're hoping is big enough to be seen from a plane. Not that you think anyone's been looking for you. You've never seen planes or helicopters or anything fly over, so maybe Dave thinks you're dead, and hasn't bothered. It hurts, but it's logical. Why waste time and resources looking for your body under a plane crash? Hypothetically, it could have ended up anywhere in the world, by now, carried by the currents or eaten by something. 

"What's it say?" The question comes from John, who's perched himself atop a nearby boulder. The sign doesn't say much of anything yet. You're still trying to get enough stuff to make the whole letters. You're beginning to run out of ready materials; there's only so many sticks and stones on one island, and you have to wait for more driftwood to wash up. 

"It's supposed to say "S.O.S"," you tell him, as you start hauling over driftwood from your stockpile and laying it out over the sand. You're pretty sure this is the beach where you washed up, but you can't tell for certain. "It doesn't really mean anything. Well, it does. But it doesn't stand for anything. People say that it's an acronym, but it was really a distress signal used by ships in Morse Code. Since it was the easiest to remember and it wasn't too long, and easy to recognize, it was standardized worldwide by.... I think 1910? I know that it was chosen by the United Nations in, uh, in 19...08, but I don't think everyone was, heh, on board immediately." You huff a single breath of amusement at your own shitty pun, but John giggles, and that makes you feel a little gratified.

"Sooo, what's Morse Code?" John tries to get away with two questions in a row, but you shoot him a pointed look and he giggles. "Oh, fine, I'll let you have your question. But then I want to know about Morse Code! I like codes. They're fun. Like a trick you're playing on people who don't know what the code is!"

You hum, and think about it for a minute. What question do you want to ask him? He won't tell you why he's on the island. There's a few pretty heavy questions you could ask, but you don't really want to talk about heavy shit right now. John has this aura about him that makes you want to lighten the fuck up, for once. You are incapable of determining whether it's magic, or if being around him just cheers you up because he's actually kind of fun to talk to. Eventually you settle on, "Would you teach me how to do magic? If you can, I mean. I don't know if humans can do it. I've never seen anyone do real magic, just sleight of hand, but you're...." You gesture to all of him. "Literally a magical being. If anyone could teach me, it would be you."

His eyebrows rise, and then he frowns and thinks about it. "I.... could," he ventures, "but.... why do you want to learn it? You won't be able to use it outside of the island, and maybe some places deep in the wild." That throws you for a loop; if magic can be used here, can't it be used everywhere? You take a moment to choose your words.

"Why won't I be able to use magic outside of the island?" Curiosity burns inside you in a way it hasn't since you were in your early teens. You have to know. This isn't just a discovery; it's an entirely new field, and the thought of being the first person in possibly hundreds or thousands of years to figure out how magic works..... it sends electricity skittering over your skin, giving you goosebumps.

 

John looks at you like he's measuring you, like he's wondering if you deserve to know. After a few moments, he says, "Magic- or rather, mana- isn't something that exists spontaneously. Well, it kind of is, but the amount of mana inside living things is naturally so small that nobody really gets to use it. People who can use it are rare, and they usually kill themselves trying to do it, because they use up their mana and die." Shivers run through you. John continues. "Something evolved, in the world that I'm from, that generates mana not just freely, but in enough quantities that things can use magic as easy as breathing. It's a kind of... fungus, and it comes in a bunch of different colors and it usually glows, but the point is, it comes from my world. And my world has portals into yours, and the way humans a long time ago could cast magic is because that fungus spread. But eventually, we- the fae- went out and exterminated all of it, here, and closed all the portals except for a few, because we were afraid of humans using magic, and coming into our world. One of the few portals left is on this island, and it closed behind me. But! I'm lucky, because this whole island is just teeming with the stuff! It's got so much of it, and it's been here for such a long time that I don't think anyone could get it out. It's in the plants and animals here, and it's even in your arm and leg, and spine. It's the reason those plants can interface with you in the first place."

That's... intense. You take a deep breath, and breathe it out in one big whoosh. "That's a lot," you say to him, and he nods, acknowledging your point. Since you paused your work to listen to him, you continue while you think. Work helps you mull things over, your brain multitasking instead of working too hard at either of them. Several minutes pass, and then you say, "I want to learn magic for the sake of learning. Because it's new, and nobody in this world knows anything about it except for you." 

He grins, and drops off the rock into the sand. "Good enough for me! Let's get started, then."


End file.
